When my good friend (and former boss) died a couple of years ago, a rather large chapter in my life ended as well. I started working for him in the early 1990s as a cycling tour guide in Europe and continued leading tours, of and on, up until he passed away. Just about any client and certainly, all the guides knew that his passing would indicate the end of the company.

Sure enough, the bikes are now all gone, the office in Paris has become a tea shop, I believe, and what used to occupy a good portion of my summers for nearly three decades is no more.

But. I am not left empty-handed. I owe my family to the company as my wife and I met indirectly as a result of my very first trip. I have a decent knowledge of Western Europe and France in particular, my French language skills, although a bit rusty, did not go dormant, and every bottle of wine I open, I can trace back directly to all those nights seated around a dinner table, after a healthy day’s riding through the European countryside.

I do not know how many times I have had to explain the origin of the name of this blog, but it has to be in the triple digits at this point. Lately, I have been changing the story up a bit, just to keep it interesting (for me, getting asked the same question that many times is at best tedious; I guess I know how Monica Lewinsky feels). The truth is that while I do not endorse drinking and riding, I did quite a bit of riding in the daytime and then drinking at dinner. Want a great cure for a hangover? Realize that you have a not optional 60-mile bike ride, including a pretty substantial mountain pass ahead of you.

Last week, I only made it in to the hotel in Rambouillet first, the clients came in well after me. So late, in fact, that it was debatable whether we were going to be able to find an open restaurant at all.

Even though the level of frustration was palpable, I asked the eight recently christened lawyers (who were no doubt trying to figure out a way to sue me in France, immediately) to follow me across the town square in front of us to the one restaurant that our hotelier told me might be open.

After corralling the malcontents and traversing the square, it was a scant ten minutes before nine. The restaurant in question was bustling with activity and even though I had only a glance at the menu, I figured food, indeed any food, was better than absolutely no food. Besides, it was France, how bad could it be?

Since we were a large group (nine including me), I waited on the terrace for a server to come over so as I could plead my case and hope for a positive verdict (yeah, the lawyers were getting to me). Although several acknowledged my presence with a nod or some other non-verbal communication, none came over. Not one.

There I waited, like a complete moron and I could hear the grumbles from my covey of counselors. Even though I am pretty certain the sound was originating from their collective mouths, it is quite possible that their empty stomachs were also contributing to the chorus.

Finally, ten minutes later, a server approached. After explaining our predicament, she briefly looked at her watch and said “désolé, la cuisine se ferme à 21h00, précises.”

Translation: the kitchen closes at 9:00 on the dot.

You have to be effing kidding me.

Even though the ridiculousness of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks–we had been standing there for ten minutes waiting to get a table, I knew arguing with her was fruitless. The French are not like Americans. They have little desire, by and large, to maximize profits. Even though our group, given dinners and drinks, would likely spend at least the equivalent of $500 at the establishment, the kitchen closed at 9:00 and that was it.

Nor did it matter that many of the patrons already in the restaurant would linger forever in the restaurant: cigarette after dinner, then cheese, another cigarette, followed by dessert, another cigarette, and finally coffee (this time with a cigarette), not leaving until well past ten o’clock.

That did not matter one bit.

Nope. The kitchen was now closed. Point final.

So I pushed all that pent-up frustration aside and asked her if she knew of any place, anywhere, that was still open.

Although seeming slightly annoyed, she indicated that there was a place about a five-minute walk away, that might still be open. Without any other options I once again gathered the group, said a little prayer, and tried to remember her directions to the “new” restaurant.

We got there. It was open. They said we could still eat, but we needed to “hurry.”

Very un-French. They never hurry anyone while eating. Literally no one. Three hour lunches are not unheard of. But this restaurant was clearly “different.”

In fact, to call it a “restaurant” was a stretch–it was more of a glorified middle school cafeteria, and it was certainly not glorified.

Pretty close to the experience in Rambouillet. And yes, the exception was the bread–fantastically good.

The server, once she eventually decided to come over, was stressed out. Even though there was no one else in the “restaurant” (or maybe because of it), she wanted to rush our order through. Again, very anti-French. While I have a boatload of issues with my adopted country, the way they treat dining in general, and diners in particular, is above reproach.

When I asked for the wine list, she responded quickly and coldly: “we have white, red, and rosé.”

Wait. Huh? Did I get so lost that I ended up in Arkansas?? This is freaking France still, non?

Deaf ears.

I ordered a couple of carafes of red and white and then started in on my translation of the menu, which was not going to take long as there were only three items that were not crossed off with what appeared to be a black Sharpie: hamburger, steak (with fries), and, well, something else. Let’s make it clear: my job was (essentially) to fix bikes, know the route, and translate the menu. It was our first day, so bike issues were nil, everyone apparently got lost in the Rambouillet forest (several times), and there was an item on the menu about which I was completely clueless.

In my time of studying in France and my limited time as a geede, I knew that the French had far more white fish than we saw in the U.S. Go ahead, think of as many white fish as you can: cod, halibut, even swordfish and catfish. Now multiply that number by about seventeen–that is close to the number of whitefish available in France.

Go figure. Really, go figure.

So? The item I did not know I translated as a “whitefish.” Seemed like the odds were in my favor. Looking around the place, however, I estimated that the “steak frites” was the safest option (as an aside, working this “job” I really learned how to order based on the locale, the other diners, the local customs, but that is for another post).

Every other person at the table, literally every other person, ordered the “whitefish.”

Said “whitefish” on the menu turned out to be “boudin.”

Now, every resident of Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi (among others, no doubt) know that “boudin” is a style of sausage. In the South, it usually includes entrails (intestines, organs, testicles, all kinds of crazy, well, “stuff”). In that part of France? It is short for boudin noir or blood sausage.

So, after a really long day, countless wrong turns, and having to run to dinner before showering, my brood was faced with an almost black tube, which, once you cut into it, oozed a purplish-black liquid. And if you spent even a third of a second thinking about it, you quickly realized: it was … blood.

Yeah.

While the French seem to love their boudin (noir), I am pretty sure it is not a hit with Americans. Particularly that night.

Fearing being exiled to St. Helena (or beyond), I ordered more “red” and “white” even some “rose.’

And tons upon tons of “frites.”

This story comes from when I first started leading bike trips in Europe almost three decades ago. I have learned a ton since those first trips. Do you want to travel by bike with me in Europe, tasting great wine, eating fantastic food, and having just a boatload of fun? Send me an email as I am organizing trips for next Spring (jeff (at) thedrunkencyclist (dot) com). I would love to hear from you!